If You Leave

If you leave now
you’ll never see anything in
bold, italic or underlined marks.

You’ll be forever a Times New Roman kinda man.

Stuck in small village quicksand,
you sink not hear or reprimand
those particles that slip from beneath you and
subside down towards a hellish checkout, receipt, checkout, receipt, checkout, customer complaint, take another seat sir, kind of job.
Find who you are within a company,
find where you are in accordance to their rules,
don’t find yourself because it’s not your thing,
Nor chosen career, go back to school.

Forget the dreams of living in the theatre, breathing
in chain-attached-to-curtain musk,
and the greases and the paints,
and the sulphur oxide dust.
Forget that you were ever you,
because Mum, Dad and girlfriend too
have moulded you into a Pedestal Prince,
one that looks and acts to their very imprint.
Type press and letter press,
one-word-at-a-time progress.

Your sentence in their hands,
sad times for the lonely man.